


A Rose by Any Other Name ...

by AetherSeer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Coming Out, Gen, News Media, Washington Capitals, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-18 17:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16123466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: The team’s always joked that the Holtbeast would go full lycan during playoffs, but when the media finds out there’s a werewolf on the team, the attention is nearly unbearable.The thing is, Braden’s completely human.





	A Rose by Any Other Name ...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Guzmanasol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guzmanasol/gifts).



> I wrote this piece for Guzmanasol as part of the ALL CAPS Exchange 2018. Enjoy!

Braden’s honestly ignored the media over the summer. The group chat’s enough of a distraction as-is, everyone speculating about their chances for the upcoming season, and what the loss of longtime teammates will do to their chances at the Cup. It’s not said directly, but it’s a quieter understanding that JoJo, Willy, Karl, Schmidty, and Dan are going to be missed for more than their hockey.

But that means he’s a bit blindsided when he gets to Washington and the media descends—ironically enough—like a pack of hungry wolves, demanding answers.

 

 

> **_Insider confirms Caps have a werewolf in their midst_ **
> 
> _By Sam Ricardo, Washington Daily_
> 
> _The news is out: The Washington Capitals have an undeclared lycanthrope in the locker room. While the NHL does not mandate full disclosure, it is considered common courtesy for lycans to inform their team owners, coaches, teammates and fans about the ‘nature of the beast,’ so to speak, in order for the rules and regulations to be fairly applied ..._

 

Trotz herds them all into the locker room before practice once everyone’s back in Washington. The rookies shift uncomfortably in their stalls, trading nervous glances. Braden sits ramrod straight in his own. Trotz nods to Reirden, who locks the door to the hallway and puts his back to it.

The media’s locked out. PR is nowhere to be seen: no cameras, no phones, no recorders. Even the trainers and equipment guys are gone. Just team remains.

“If you haven’t heard the reporters screaming questions in your face,” Trotz starts, “then maybe you’re oblivious to the fact that someone’s privacy was violated this summer, and information that shouldn’t have become public was leaked.”

Braden glances around the locker room. Everyone’s listening. It’s eerily quiet in a place that’s never silent.

“I don’t know which of you is lycan,” Trotz says, “and I frankly don’t care. The player in question has every right to keep his silence, and I’ll have no witch hunt to find out who he is. If he wants to tell you, he will. But we won’t have any bullying or lycanthrophobia in this locker room.”

Braden stares at each of his teammates in turn. He knows these guys; knows who is most likely to say an off-color joke, or make an inappropriate comment that sends the team into screaming laughter. He doesn’t know, though, how most of them will react to having a lycan as a teammate.

Trotz has apparently said all he’s going to say on the matter. He heaves a sigh and gestures for Reirden to unblock the door. “Okay, guys. Out to the ice.”

Braden focuses on getting his pads in order, carefully strapping them into place. Around him, there’s a rising level of noise, but no one’s exactly talking to each other. Braden gets that; it’s not every day you find out a teammate’s a werewolf.

 

It’s a little disconcerting when Braden realizes the increase in media scrutiny extends to the filming of his routines, and from far too close. After the fourth time he’s had to duck into the bathroom to escape the cameras and just get a little space to breathe, he goes to Sergey.

“I can’t have cameras six feet away when I’m trying to concentrate on the game,” he says. It comes out a little desperate, but if it’s this bad during _training camp,_ Braden doesn’t want to think about how much worse it will be when the season actually begins. “Please, Sergey. Make them back off. Of _everyone._ ”

Because of course it’s not just Braden who’s now unwillingly in the spotlight. Ovi has a mini-parade of paparazzi shadowing him everywhere, and while Nicky’s terrifying enough that they keep a small radius between him and them, he’s bitched about journalists tailing him the last few days as well.

If the media were hounding him about his hockey, Braden wouldn’t mind nearly so much.

 

* * *

 

It’s not the first time Andre’s cornered Braden after practice, but it is the first time he’s looked completely serious about it. Braden blinks at him, and has the urge to check for a fever. He wishes he’d followed that instinct when Andre blurts out “You know I like lycans, right? Like, I’m not gonna be a dick about it?”

Braden just blinks at him. “Yes? Good to know?”

 

Tom at least has the decency to bring Braden coffee. “If anyone says anything, let me know, yeah? We’re team, and no one gets away with saying lycanthrophobic bullshit.”

He’s earnest, and Braden has no doubt Tom will back up his words with his fists. It’s oddly touching, even though … “You don’t need to fight for me, you know that, right?”

Tom just quirks a half-smile at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Holts, that’s kinda what I do.”

 

Nicky and Alex tag-team him, inviting him out for dinner at a quiet steakhouse. It’s good steak, and Braden digs in appreciatively. Alex leans forward, blue eyes serious. “I understand why you not say anything. It okay. But you always have place on team, yes? Best goalie.”

Braden’s mouth is full of steak. He makes the mistake of meeting Nicky’s eyes across the table. Nicky looks calm, which is his default, but … apparently everyone’s come to the same conclusion.

Braden swallows and tries to come up with an appropriate response. All that he manages is a weak “Thanks, O.”

 

By the time Carly invites him over for a beer, Braden’s had just about enough of well-meaning teammates. He focuses on the baseball game on the TV, hoping the subject never gets raised. But Carly’s picking at his beer label and avoiding eye contact, and Braden mentally sighs.

It’s the fifth inning before Carly finally ventures, “So, about the lycan thing …”

Braden sets his beer down and shifts to look more directly at Carly, who’s staring at the floor. “Look,” Braden says, “I get that everyone’s supportive and happy to have a lycan on the team, but I’m not a werewolf.”

Carly jolts. “Well, obviously,” he says.

Obviously? Braden’s not following, because he’s had near the entire team try to communicate (badly) that they think he is. Some of his surprise must show on his face, because Carly drains his beer and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Of course you aren’t lycan,” Carly says, “because the article was talking about me.”

Braden feels his eyebrows raise of their own accord. He gives Carly a once-over. Other than _big,_ Carly doesn’t fit any of the lycan stereotypes. Which, Braden supposes, makes it easier to blend in and keep quiet about it. “Oh.”

“No one was supposed to find out,” Carly says. “It doesn’t give me an advantage on the ice, you know.”

Braden’s picked up on that much from his reading the last few weeks. Lycans and ice aren’t exactly a match made in heaven, and the only sense that sharpens closer to the full moon is apparently the sense of— “I can’t imagine how bad the room smells to you.”

Carly barks out a laugh, easing back into a more relaxed position. “It’s not great, yeah. You do _not_ want to know what hockey pads left in a gear bag for a week smells like to a lycan. Believe me, you only need to learn that lesson the hard way once.”

Braden winces sympathetically. He can only imagine.

“Everyone’s really been supportive, though?” Carly asks. His legs might be kicked out, his body settled deep into the couch, but his shoulders are tense.

“Badly phrased,” Braden allows, “but yeah. Over half the team’s invited me places to let me know they have nothing against lycans and they’re happy I’m on the team. Oh, and Tom’s willing to break a couple of faces if we find out who leaked it. I think Snarls wanted in, too.”

Carly looks surprised, like he hadn’t expected that to be the answer. “They really—oh.”

“Yeah. They might have the wrong guy,” Braden says ruefully, “but they’re not … they don’t care that you’re lycan.”

 

By the end of the preseason, the furor has died down. The Caps aren’t the first to have a lycan on the team, after all, even though it’s still rare. Braden still has to deal with well-meaning teammates, and he gets the odd chirp from players on opposing teams, but not many. Messing with goalies is still considered bad form. And Carly’s more settled in his skin, less jumpy than he was during training camp.

_“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Carly had asked._

_Braden shook his head. “It’s not that bad,” he said. And it really wasn’t. Sure, the chirps around the locker room were a little more laden with wolf references, and he’d heard one or two “jokes” about his “time of the month” from opponents, but_  …  _it was surprisingly easy to tune that kind of thing out. Although that was probably because it wasn’t personal, not like it would be for Carly. “I can handle being the ‘wolf in Caps clothing’ until you want to, I don’t know, announce it.”_

_Braden was sure he wasn’t imagining the relief on Carly’s face._

Braden tracks Carly around the ice, watching his defenseman pass the puck back and forth with Lars. He still doesn’t ping “lycan” on Braden’s radar, even _knowing_ he is. He just looks human. Which he _is,_ and Braden _knows that,_ but it’s still … it’s hard to wrap his brain around it. The lycanthropy part. It’s magic, which has never made much sense to Braden since he’s as non-magical as they come, but … now he’s thinking about it. Constantly.

Andre flat-out runs into Braden, knocking him back against the boards. “C’mon, _Holtbeast,_ time for shootout practice!”

Braden quirks an eyebrow and mock-growls at Andre, swiping at the kid’s face with his glove. Andre ducks and spins away with a bright grin. “Shootout!” he sing-songs.

 

Braden invites John over for a beer later in the month, after a disappointing performance against the Panthers on home ice. Braden hadn’t even been on the ice, and John’s team-high seven shots hadn’t come up with a goal. John hesitates, but does eventually accept.

John sips the beer Braden hands him before even looking at the label. When he does, he starts laughing. “You just happen to have Blue Moon in your fridge?”

“I’m pretty sure Philipp gave it to me as a joke.” Braden certainly hopes so, considering his fellow goalie had been smirking as he handed over the case—complete with a big red bow. “I figured you could help me drink them, though.”

“Really? I thought he’d, y’know, know,” John says. “What with the—” he waves the hand not holding his beer at Braden “—goalie thing.”

Braden raises an eyebrow. “Philipp knows I’m not lycan,” he agrees mildly. Because Philipp _did_ know, even if the German wasn’t sure who on the team _was._ “He thinks it’s hilarious that everyone else thinks I am, though.”

John takes a long drink of his beer and glances everywhere except at Braden. Braden rolls his eyes. “It’s the nickname,” he offers. “I’ll take being called a lycan over being called ‘Ellen,’ any day.”

As predicted, John starts laughing for real then. “I forgot about that,” he snickers.

Braden waits him out, happy to drink his beer and then half of a second until John’s winding down. John grins at him, salutes him with his bottle, and then drains it. “I needed that.”

 

Two beers turns into three, Braden’s feet comfortably wedged between John’s hip and the back of the couch, John relaxed against the other end, giggling. “Andre told Nicky to his face that Nicky couldn’t possibly be lycan ‘cause his beard’s too awful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nicky so offended.”

Braden can picture it so clearly, Nicky’s startled offense and Andre’s growing horror. “Wait, is that why Nicky sat on him and wouldn’t let him up?”

“Yep. And he did it to himself, so no one was gonna do anything.” John’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. Braden’s just glad John’s comfortable enough to smile as easily as he had before the media storm.

“It’s not just the nickname, though,” John says. “It’s like, everything.” Braden feels his eyebrows go up. “If I _wasn’t_ lycan, _I_ would’ve guessed you, too. Like, Holtbeast, yeah, but also the hair and the goalie zen, and the temper.”

Braden would be mildly offended, but John maybe has a point. “I never would’ve guessed you,” he says instead. He gets a wide grin for that. “I thought maybe Ovi, but …” Their captain wouldn’t have hidden it. Lycanthropy isn’t something Russians hide.

“Yeah, O would’ve been out like day two. Before the draft.”

 

Braden’s tossing the empty bottles into the recycling when John brings it up again. “Why’d you go along with it?”

He doesn’t have to specify what “it” is. Braden knows. Braden straightens up, slides the bin back into its place. John’s leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him. “I didn’t know what was going on, at first,” Braden admits. “But after the first few times … if it _was_ me, and I wasn’t ready, and someone else could handle the questions for me … I wanted to be that for whoever it was. And then you told me, and you said you weren’t ready.”

Braden flexes his fingers. “I’m a goalie, too. You don’t get hit as a goalie. No one’s muttering insults over the faceoff or while digging out pucks or dropping the gloves on you as a goalie. So … it was safe for me to take that on for you.”

Braden hopes that his rambling makes as much sense outside his head as it did to him. John bites his lower lip. “I’m gonna hug you, okay?”

And, well, Braden’s a _goalie._ He’s never going to say no to that.

**Author's Note:**

> John comes out in a post-Cup press conference, casually dropping the information into the middle of a question about the struggles of the season. Braden will relish the dumbstruck expressions and immediate head-swivels of his teammates when he watches the video later. At the time, though, all he feels is joy.
> 
> Liked the fic? Want to chat more? Hit me up on Tumblr: [ ficcinghell](http://ficcinghell.tumblr.com). My inbox is always open.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What's in a Name?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328562) by [hfleury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hfleury/pseuds/hfleury)




End file.
